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Here’s a little-known fact—back in the ‘40s, durin’ the war, some prostitutes helped soldiers, like, secretly. Hid ‘em, fed ‘em! Kinda like in The Pianist, y’know, “You have to help me. Hide me!” That line sticks with me. Makes ya think, huh? These women, they’re not just… well, what people assume. Some are survivors, some are trapped. Breaks my heart, man.

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Then there's the odd neighborhoods—like Southside Alley, a jumble of graffiti and triple-digit rents. I hate how its narrow streets, like Elm, twist like a bad memory. But, hell, that’s what gives it character. My fave spot? The rundown cinema at 7th & Vine. It reeks of old popcorn and rebellion. I saw a flick there that reminded me of the raw grit in The Hurt Locker. "No one ever found salvation in a bomb shelter," I muttered. Whatever, it sounded cool.

Grant gets suspended prison sentence but must spend a year at halfway house